Tell
you tell me secrets
combinations of soft words
that flutter inside
Hold
midnight’s snails leave lines
silver trails that hold moonlight
briefly as we pass
Points
the wind-blown blackthorn
points like a crooked finger
the storms prevailing
Author: John Everex
A writer, reader and cautious optimist.
Fevers of the Mind
The first edition of this publication is now available on Amazon as an ebook or paperback.
I have three poems in the anthology, which also contains work from a wide variety of other writers and poets. It’s well worth a look.
Click here to find out more…
Haikus 30.5.19
May
at the end of May
tender hawthorn blossom falls
into summertime
Plans
while we sort out plans
the winds play chords of lament
as another fades
Vestige
tired looking petals
their translucent elegance
now but a vestige
Latest release on Channillo
The latest chapter of my fantasy novel “Archipelago” has just been released on Channillo.com.
Read a sample here:
Aaron approached the Naval Militia Offices, an austere stone building five stories high, overlooking The Bay of Kelmardos. It ran along the east side of the lake surrounding The Lords Tower, creating a functional curtain wall that could – in theory at least – be defended. Built on Ancient foundations, it wore a sense of history; its stoic seaworn solidity marked by centuries of wear. He walked up the steps, countless feet, winds and rains marking the passage of time.
An imperial guard in full ceremonial armour stood to attention at the grand entrance. He barely looked at Aaron. The doors were open – created in epic proportions, a full six feet taller than him – the hallway inside likewise expansive. Concrete pillars supported the vaulted roof, the ceiling’s heroic plasterwork crumbling to leave deformed creatures cavorting above. Elaborate stained glass decorated one vast window frame overlooking the tower. Small panes, each held in a dark lead lattice, formed a scene depicting The Cataclysm – figures dying, bodies twisting in pestilent agony, whilst The Ancestors fled to the islands. A sweeping staircase spiralled up and corridors led off in two directions. An elderly scribe nodded a greeting.
Haikus 24.5.19
Monster
We make our monster
from chaos, boxes and glue.
When you go, he stays.
Kiss
bruised vodka kisses
your cheeks with cold aggression
and desperation
Imagine
try to imagine
this concrete-cast parking lot
as primal woodland
Haikus 17.5.19
Unfold
a rose bud bursting
to reveal tender secrets
as drama unfolds
Guess
blinded by their light
we didn’t see it coming
or guess the result
Over
we were taught well
over the course of decades
to keep our eyes closed
Archipelago
The first part of my fantasy novel “Archipelago” is now available to read on Channillo. Read the opening below:
Caerlin Kengarl stared towards the distant Bay of Kelmardos, her destination a distant smudge. There was going to be a spectacular sunrise, with a slice of fierce vermillion already catching the wrinkled underbelly of the blanket cloud shrouding the eastern sky. Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. It was what her father would have said, not that she had ever listened to him.
She stood with her hand against the cold wood of the main mast. Her boat, The Piper, moved slowly, making the most of the westerly, which soughed through the rigging above her, a rhythmic clanking keeping time with the wash of water under the prow. The Piper was a trading vessel, and whilst not built for speed, it was practical, with two masts, a small cabin, a space below for the galley, sleeping dormitory and hold, which took up most of the space. Designed for island hopping and large river navigation, for the last six months the boat had been her charge. She felt wistful about the approaching end to this arrangement.
Read more here…
Haikus 9.5.19
Belief
I always believed
my childhood naivety
a precious moment
Rope
I’m out on a limb
enough rope to hang myself
and there’s no way back
Still
her painted still life
a brushed feint so deceptive
I tremble in awe
Haikus 4.5.19
Message
the message was brief
hidden in pulsing starlight
‘you are not alone’
Wash
traced secrets in steam
as condensation obscures
wash room love poems
Yearning
a simple childhood
making camps and tales and games
and yearning for nowt
Lucky
The mongrel has one ear. The other is missing, a jagged flap of skin covering the skin-puckered hole. From the set of his jaw, he’s part staffie, with a lurcher’s long tail and part something else. He walks jauntily through the road dust and litter and the new black ash, his tongue lolling like a freshly sliced piece of ham. That’s how I first see him, owning the lonely street and leaving pawprints. He’s the first living thing I’ve seen here.
